Had I the Words
by Cantaria
Summary: Sam wishes he had a way with words.


Pairing: F/S

Rating: PG

Warnings: Slash. And, heaven forbid, Pretty!Frodo. Seriously, though, I tried not to make him too horribly clichéd.   

Disclaimer: The hobbits are not my creations. They are my inspiration. 

Feedback: As always, would be greatly appreciated.

Summary: Sam wishes he had a way with words. 

Sam wishes he had a way with words.

He wishes that words could flow as easily as water off of his tongue, so that he could give shape to the beautiful visions that he sees, that he _knows_ inside of his head. He would speak of the lush and bright loveliness of the garden he tends to with such painstaking devotion, the rainbow assortment of flowers that seem to run and blend together into a mosaic of wild colors, as if a mad painter took his watercolors and smeared them across his canvas in a fit of passion. 

He wishes he could spurt forth with verses of poetry lauding the dawn for her renewal; the earth for nurturing and sustaining the life that relies on her; the Moon and the stars for their pale, almost ethereal glow, which seems to augment the existing beauty of whatever they cast their light upon. 

But mostly, he wishes he could describe Frodo. Frodo, who always seems to have words for everything. Frodo, who is lovelier than any garden in many ways. Is it any small wonder that Sam feels so plain and coarse whenever Frodo remarks on how clear and beautiful the night is, using that fanciful language of his, and the moonlight hits him in just the right way? And when Sam bids Frodo good night, when Frodo smiles and has a wistful look in his eyes, as if reluctant to let Sam go, how is it that Sam can hold all he feels inside and not burst from it?  

_Aye, but then, would any words be fittin' to describe._.. him? he wonders. 

"Hello, Sam," a familiar voice says softly. Sam jumps; he's been lost within his thoughts, idly fingering a nearby rosebush. The sky is darkening to dusk, and Sam can make out a faint light from the brightest star. It's almost time to leave. 

"Hello, sir. I didn't hear you comin'," Sam says, and instantly feels foolish. _Of course he knows that, you dolt_. Luckily for Sam, Frodo only shows gentle amusement.

"I assumed as much." Sam can hear the smile in Frodo's voice. "I'm afraid I've been quite the recluse today; translating old Elvish texts and such. Such a beautiful language, Elvish is, Sam. Perhaps I'll read some to you tomorrow," he ends eagerly. His eyes reflect some of the remaining sunlight, and Sam catches his breath. He can't imagine any language that could outshine _that_. 

"I'd like that, sir," Sam replies. Truth be told, it's not the language itself he's keen on hearing; he just looks forward to hearing Frodo's voice, lilting and almost musical, weaving a spell of grand words that the likes of him would never begin to understand. But that is perfectly all right with him, so long as he gets the _feel_ of it. That would be enough. And being with Frodo, well, that would be _more_ than enough. In fact, it would be-

"_Wonderful_," Sam finds himself saying out loud. He curses himself silently. _Now you've gone and done it, Sam Gamgee. How're you goin' to follow that up?_

"What is, Sam?" Frodo asks, looking Sam directly in the eyes. He takes a step closer to Sam. Sam thinks he sees curiosity and wonder in those eyes, and something else- why, if he didn't know better, he'd say it was unmistakably- an _invitation_. Any words that Sam might have said are completely lost. _Oh, Frodo, but don't you have a way of chasin' away any chance of thinkin'!_ Sam thinks in almost desperate wonder. So, Sam answers with the only thing he knows for certain at this moment. _Now for it, Sam!_

"You." Nothing more, nothing less. Sam realizes blushingly that his answer must sound so abrupt and naked. But he honestly can't think of any answer more fitting than that. Daring a glance at Frodo, Sam is surprised to see that his answer must've been right, because Frodo's face is lit up, not entirely from external forces. 

"Do you really think so, Sam?" Frodo says, his voice almost a whisper. He takes another step closer. Sam can see the faint freckles dotting across his nose. Any closer than this, and Frodo's eyes will fill Sam's world completely. _Oh, there aren't no words for this, whether I'm a scholar or no, _Sam decides, and will have to show his answer to Frodo, hoping it will suffice. He takes a deep breath and reaches out his hand, shaking slightly but sure, and lays it against Frodo's cheek.  His thumb smoothes over skin that seems so petal-soft in contrast to his own. He traces over the contours of Frodo's face, his touch mapping silent words of praise and wonder and love. 

"Yes," Sam says, just as softly. Two trembling fingers slip over Frodo's lips, softer still than his skin. Then, Sam leans in and presses his own lips to cover the trail his fingers made, light as a whisper. He draws back suddenly, worried that he's done too much.

But just as suddenly, Frodo's lips are on his, with considerably more pressure. Sam feels fingers twine into his hair, pulling him in even closer. Sam threads his fingers through Frodo's hair in turn, opening his mouth to Frodo. At length, Frodo is the one to pull back, breaths coming fast and shallow.

"Oh, Sam- I can't believe-you-_this_," he gasps. For once, it seems he is the one who is at a loss for words. 

"_This_," Sam agrees, "this- this is- oh, if I only had words for it-"

"There are no words for this," Frodo answers. "Yet you've just said everything, and more."

"Not quite everything, Frodo," Sam says, his hands finding Frodo's. "I reckon there's one word for this I know for certain."

"And- and what would that be, Sam?" Frodo asks, though Sam's sure he already knows. 

"_Love_." And now, Sam has found all the words he needs. 


End file.
